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  ALL SLEUTH AND NO PLAY

  by

  JENNIFER L. HART

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  Copyright © 2017 by Jennifer L. Hart

  Cover design by Estrella Designs

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Amy, Kevin, and Lydia Duncan and our Beantown adventure.

  Next time we'll turn left. Promise.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  Building relationships is crucial to a private investigator. Be careful who you stomp on and even more careful who you trust. Grudges have long memories.

  From: The Working Man's Guide to Sleuthing for a Living

  An unpublished manuscript by Albert Taylor, PI.

  "Who is she?" My latest client, one Wendy McMurphy, asked in an even tone as she stared at the photographs in front of her.

  "Um…?" I mumbled stupidly, unwilling to answer. Sure, I was her PI, her information guru, the woman who'd had to climb on top of a dumpster in suede boots to get the money shot. But Mrs. McMurphy looked like a woman on the edge. Her too calm façade made every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. "She's a professional."

  Bloodshot brown eyes studied me. "A professional what?"

  "An escort."

  She didn't respond, and I cleared my throat, preparing to clarify.

  "You know, a lady of the night. A high-class call girl. The world's oldest profession." My gaze flicked to the photo. I had the other woman's identity and not just the nickname I'd mentally tagged her with as I'd followed her and Mr. McMurphy all over Boston. Bottle blonde with the fake boobs—BBWFB for short—was a call girl, one of many Mr. McMurphy had doinked. Though I had only become a PI recently, I'd learned that the more information I obtained on behalf of the client, the stronger the case Len, aka Lennard Copeland, aka my boss, could argue in court.

  "You're telling me my husband paid this woman for sex?" Mrs. McMurphy had crazy eyes.

  I winced. She was too quiet, too accepting of the photo where her spouse of seven years played hide-the-salami with BBWFB in a vacant apartment he was supposed to be showing to potential renters. Even I had curled my lip in revulsion at the level of scum, and not just what I'd had to scrape off my boots later. And this was my payoff, watching this woman's last hope that her husband wasn't cheating die a sad and lonely death. How long until I turned on the TV to see the clip, Newbie PI responsible for escort massacre. Film at 11.

  I exchanged a glance with Len, hoping he would help diffuse Mrs. M before she blew a gasket. Len was an aged Southern gentleman who used his frail appearance to disguise his razor sharp wit. In the three months I had worked for him, Len had yet to lose a case in court. And he was much better at talking a woman down from a ledge than my too blunt and tactless self.

  "That's not really the issue," Len's soft drawl was kind and sincere. "We agreed to hire Mackenzie in order to obtain proof that your husband was having an affair. She has done so. Now, I know this must be quite a shock. Why don't you head home and take your time deciding how to proceed? I'll see you out."

  He rose and shuffled around the desk, taking her gently by the elbow. Though the words sounded like a suggestion, they really weren't. Len had opened up a path for Mrs. McMurphy, one other than the slippery slope to a homicidal bloodbath. I bet in another life he'd been a member of a bomb squad.

  I slumped back in my chair while I waited for Len to return and released an exhausted breath. From deep within my jacket pocket my phone pinged. After fishing it out and picking lint from my mittens out of the casing, I swiped my thumb over the screen.

  How'd crazypants take it? the text from my daughter, Mac read.

  Like a champ, I typed back. Wanted 2 tell her to get herself an STD panel but refrained. Thought she might shoot the messenger.

  Way 2 go. Got an English lit test in 5. Wish me luck.

  I did, though Mac never needed luck. She was always prepared and wicked smart. Or smaht, as a real Boston native would say. I'd lived in the city my entire adult life but had grown up a military brat and still had the habit of pronouncing the letter R. My kid was a genius, which totally made up for the fact that her mother was a grade-A dumbass, at least half the time. I camouflaged the lack of good sense by being both doggedly tenacious and absolutely fabulous.

  I slipped my phone back in my pocket and went into the outer office where Len kept the coffee pot and poured a mug full. Winter wind rattled the leaded glass windows in the front of the law office. I shivered as I clutched my mug more tightly between my palms, more than ready to head back to the villa I shared with my daughter. Maybe climb into the crocheted mermaid tail blanket she'd made me for Christmas with the help of our upstairs neighbor. Mac would come home, having scored an A on her test, and we'd self-medicate with Netflix until the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach went away.

  Len made his way to my side and poured his own mug of coffee. "You did well back there," he reassured me.

  I raised a brow at him. "Really? It doesn't feel like it."

  Len took a small sip of java, not mainlining the stuff the way I did. The overhead lights reflected off his liver-spotted head. "You gave her the evidence she was after. Whether she realizes it or not, her case is stronger now, and I'll be able to get her a better settlement."

  I polished off my coffee—it never takes me long—and leaned back against the table. "I just hate seeing the last light of hope die in their eyes, you know?"

  Len patted my arm. "I do know. By the time our clients make it through the door to us, they tend to know the score and are only looking for confirmation. And that's all we can give them. That and maybe a little financial vengeance."

  He was right, deep down I knew it, but it didn't make me feel any less wretched for my part in it. "What else do you have for me?"

  I was an unlicensed PI. That meant I could only work the cases Len gave me. Which, with one notable exception, had all been of the following philandering-spouses variety. Funny how I'd never considered that scenario when I'd decided I wanted to step into my dear old Uncle Al's gumshoes.

  Len smiled, and it was the mischievous smile of a little boy. "Actually, I think I'll let Brett tell you."

  "Brett?" I frowned. "You mean Brett Archer, Mac's dad? What would he need a PI for?" Brett was also a private investigator, albeit a licensed one. He'd been on the job longer than I had and worked for himself instead of a lawyer like Len.

  Len sat in the swivel chair that he used at the reception desk. To my knowledge, Len did all the filing and administrative work for the law office himself, so I still didn't understand why he had two desks. Maybe to look more impressive to clients.

  Just then the front door opened and sure enough, my ex came in, shaking snowflakes from the collar of his Burberry coat. "It is wicked cold out there," Brett said. He also pronounced his Rs, more because of the erudite speech lessons his family had subjected him to back when he'd been a golden prince instead of a working stiff. I still hadn't gotten the story on how his charmed life had been derailed.

  "Thanks for the update, Captain Obvious," I said, a little more sharpness leaking into my voice than I'd intended. Maybe it was seeing Brett on the heels of another adultery case, but the reminder of how I'd caught him fooling around with some easy piece the day the home pregnancy test gave me a plus sign was sharper than usual. I'd decided to keep the news—and the baby—to myself. Not my most mature decision, but I had been sixteen at the time.

  Brett ignored my tone and flashed me his golden boy grin while he shucked his outerwear. "Good to see you too, babe. How's our girl?"

  "Brilliant, beautiful, and full of sass," I told him proudly. "Just like her mom."

  "Too bad you have such a low opinion of yourself." Brett tossed me a wink and then helped himself to coffee.

  "The struggle is real. So, what's this about a case?"

  "Let me just talk to Len for a sec, and then I'll catch you up." Brett made his way over to the attorney, the two men talking in easy rhythm.

  Everything about Brett was easy, almost effortless. I'd forgotten that about him. I had been worried when Brett came back into our lives that he would lure Mac away from me, the new exotic parent she'd always wanted to know. But Brett seemed happy to stop by our place and hang out with Mac. He'd been over for Christmas and New Year's Eve, bringing wine much too expensive for the deli prepared meal I'd served. He'd sat patientl
y as Mac showed him the ins and outs of her personally designed PC network and studiously ignored the dirty looks my mother had shot in his direction.

  Brett fit our family dynamic well, inserting a pithy comment now and then to keep the banter going but never stealing the show. At times, I got the feeling he was trying to demonstrate exactly how noninvasive he could be to our little family unit. But he was still a spectator, a visitor, and I was always glad to see him go back to his life so we could continue ours.

  Len waved me over and then ushered us back into his office. I ignored the chair, perching one hip on the corner of Len's desk to face my baby daddy. From that angle, the lawyer and I presented a united front, sending the subtle message that Brett was the outsider.

  "So I hear you have a case," I said, hoping I wouldn't end up playing Peeping Thelma to his Peeping Tom as we handled yet another messy divorce.

  "Actually yes. Specifically, a missing person's case." Brett took a sip of coffee, his face telegraphing nothing.

  I perked up at that. "Who's missing?"

  "A newlywed bride, Gwen Yates. Her family has hired me to find her. They, particularly her mother, suspect foul play. Her husband Keith insisted she would be back. About a week ago he came to me too, asked for my help. I can't in good conscience represent him at the same time as I am investigating him."

  I drummed my unpolished nails on the desk. "Do you think he did something to her?"

  Brett had one convincing poker face. He gave nothing away as he muttered, "At this point, I'm not ruling anything out. My proposal is this: We pick up the investigation together. If he needs a lawyer, Len will represent Keith, and I can proceed without a conflict of interest. Besides, two sets of eyes looking for her are better than one."

  I looked at the attorney. Len did some criminal defense as well as divorce law. "What do you think?"

  "If nothing else, it will give you some good experience in finding missing persons." Len removed his thick glasses and began to clean the lenses with a monogrammed handkerchief. "And I don't have much else for you at the moment."

  "For what it's worth," Brett added, "I like the husband, which is why I'm bothering to bring this to you instead of just telling him to kiss off. He seems genuinely distraught that his wife is missing."

  "Doesn't mean he's not a sociopath and her body is weighted down at the bottom of Boston Harbor," I pointed out.

  Brett grinned. "True. So, what do you think? Ready to take on a new kind of case?"

  * * *

  I thought about Brett's offer all the way home. The drive took longer than usual, what with the snow and sleet coming down and the weary Beantown natives scurrying for cover. Accidents clogged the interstate and spilled over onto the downtown streets, so what normally took twenty minutes was almost an hour and then some.

  The file Brett had collected on the missing newlywed, 29-year-old Gwen Yates, sat on the passenger seat of my Dodge Hellcat, aka Helga. I hadn't agreed to take on the case. Not that I had said no. I'd mumbled something about needing to head home and told both men I would think it over. True, looking for Gwen was Len-sanctioned. My employer did want me to get some more experience, so shadowing another PI made sense. Plus, on the off chance that Gwen's hubby took Brett's advice and hired Len, I'd probably end up looking for her anyway. So why not get a head start?

  Even though I was tempted to leap at the chance to do some investigating that didn't involve someone playing a tawdry game of pickle tickle, the idea of being a pseudo intern for my ex made me uncomfortable. The last thing I needed was for Brett to get it in his head that he could order me around. Not that I thought he would abuse the power, but I'd seen some of the looks he'd been shooting my way. And yet he did have vastly more experience than I did. He'd been a successful PI for over a decade. A true professional wouldn't let our personal history or current situation interfere from finding the missing person.

  I was still mulling it over when I pulled up in front of our garage, which sat off to the side and behind our villa. It was one of the old-fashioned garages where the doors opened vertically when someone dragged them apart, not one of the nifty ones where the driver could press a button and it slid up and out of the way. The right door opened easily enough, but the left side seemed to be hung up on something invisible, just for kicks.

  I swore as my high-heeled boots skidded on the slippery concrete, and if it wasn't for the icy grip I had on the wrought iron handle, I would have landed on my substantial backside in a freezing puddle.

  "Mother puss bucket," I bitched and yanked harder. Nothing doing, the stubborn door stayed firmly shut. "This is not what I need right now."

  "Need a hand, Red?" a deep male voice asked from right behind me.

  I leapt, spinning in the air as I came nose to chest with my downstairs neighbor and tenant, Detective Hunter Black.

  I gasped, hand over my heart. The organ beat against my ribcage as though it wanted to pound its way right out of my chest cavity and take a jog into the brisk winter wind. Hunter had that effect on me. Seeing him was better than cardio. "I swear someone needs to put a bell on you."

  His midnight eyes crinkled slightly around the corners. The expression was subtle, which was his typical MO. He said nothing, just reached past me with those massive arms that had once held me to him in a passion. Two quick tugs and the garage was once again open.

  "Thanks." I shifted from foot to foot, almost losing my balance.

  "You look cold," he observed. "Better get inside."

  He probably had somewhere to go, lives to save, and all that. "Don't let me keep you."

  Poor choice of words. Hunter's semi-smile fell away, and I scheduled an ass-kicking for my thoughtless mouth later. I hadn't kept him, had done a catch and release sort of thing after our incredible night together. Hunter had hinted that he'd been open for more. And the worst part was, I'd wanted that too, wanted to see if our attraction might lead to a real future.

  Hunter's stare was as cold as the January air. "I'll shut the garage for you. You shouldn't drive this car this time of year anyhow. Too much horsepower on wet roads is asking for trouble."

  "I know, but between needing to remain inconspicuous on the job and the weather, poor Helga hasn't been driven enough. I really didn't expect it to be this crappy out today. Sometimes you just got to break the rules. You know, live a little."

  His expression didn't change, not even remotely sympathetic. Then again, he was a cop and had seen plenty of instances when breaking the rules resulted in tragedy. Those dark eyes bore into me, and I shifted, breaking eye contact. As if to punctuate his point, the sleet started coming down in earnest. "It's not safe."

  I heaved a sigh. "Fine, I won't drive her again until spring. Happy?"

  The thing about Hunter, he didn't gloat when he got his way. I don't know how he could have resisted. I strutted like a high-stepping rooster whenever anyone told me I was right. In so many ways, he was the anti-me. Was that the source of our attraction, being polar opposites?

  Tiptoeing on the icy cobbles, I returned to the Hellcat and parked her in the garage next to Hunter's motorcycle. Though normally I would have taken the time to back into the garage, I didn't want him watching me and making me nervous. It was an emotion I rarely experienced, and my coping skills needed work.

  At last, Helga was tucked away, and Hunter and I shut her in for a long winter's nap.

  "Thanks," I said to him when the garage was once again secure. "I appreciate the help."

  But he wasn't looking at my face. No, his gaze was trained on my six-inch heeled boots, and it wasn't admiring. "I'll help you inside."

  "I'm fine." I tried to wave him off.

  "That wasn't a request." His commanding tone was as icy as the weather.

  "Hunter, I'll be all right." My contrary nature reared up. Spending time with him wasn't a good idea.

  The wind lifted some of the long midnight hair that flowed past his shoulders. "Please."